


Dean Winchester Sleeps with a Pregnant Woman

by RevenantAvenger90



Series: Legatus Hidden [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean can't keep it in his pants, Dean has odd ways of gathering information, Dean is a sex maniac, F/M, FBI, FBI Agent, Father-Son Relationship, Ghosts, Het, Heterosexual situations, John and Dean have a decent relationship, Pregnant!Sex, Sane pregnant woman, Unattached pregnant female character, explicit - Freeform, improvising, quantico
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 13:10:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RevenantAvenger90/pseuds/RevenantAvenger90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester encounters a pregnant woman during a mission. Things get steamy. Pre-series, takes place in 2004. Dean is 24.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean Winchester Sleeps with a Pregnant Woman

She’s the first pregnant woman Dean ever fucks.

They meet in Quantico in ’04, when he’s working a mission with his dad to rid the base of a vengeful spirit that’s been targeting the brains and tongues. John and Dean pull their gig (this time with Dean acting the part of interested community college graduate looking to further his education), and when someone comes out to show them around the parts of Quantico that they’re allowed to see, Dean’s a little startled to realize that it’s a woman who’s sometime in the third trimester of a pregnancy. But he can’t see a ring on her finger no matter how he tries to catch sight of one, and he has to admit, she’s rather attractive. A smartly-dressed brunette, warm brandy eyes that put scotch to shame, full breasts and ass and basketball-round belly, Dean can’t help the heat that shoots straight to his groin when she gives him a once-over and a small, guarded smile. He doesn’t even notice John’s incredulous look until his father elbows him sharply in the ribs, jerking Dean out of his ogling.

She introduces herself as Caroline Munroe, tells them that she’s a translator, and that’s when Dean realizes that she’s not only a student here, but also a target. She shows them around the more public areas: dorms, dining hall, library, classroom, auditorium, chapel, administrative offices, gym and track, and the garage. Dean chats it up with her the entire time, finding out that she’s currently single, that she speaks fluent Spanish and French and Italian as well as elementary Latin and some Farsi, and that she’s played the violin since she was in grade school. She says that she’s all for self-improvement at any stage of life, and he gives a wry grin and agrees with her, ignoring the expected eye-roll from John. So, when she stops abruptly just outside of an alley, looking a little pale, Dean glances down the alleyway and asks her what’s the matter.

“Nothing,” she tells him. “It’s nothing.” She goes on to explain that this is Hogan’s Alley, one of the FBI training facilities. Dean snickers as he reads the sign out front.

“Welcome to Hogan’s Alley City Limits,” he chuckles, “Caution: Law Enforcement training exercises in progress. Display of weapons firing of blank ammunition and arrests may occur. If challenged please follow instructions. Have a nice day.”

Caroline giggles along with him, but it’s a short-lived sound, and as she hurries them onward, Dean and John look at each other and wonder if they’ve hit pay dirt. Dean brings up the subject of odd occurrences not too long afterward. Caroline is pretty tight-lipped about it, but Dean manages to coax some information out of her: a few of the translators and forensics gurus have recently been killed during training exercises. Freak stuff, she says. Dried-up paintball went through someone’s eye like a bullet, punctured the brain-pan, killed him slowly. Another death was in the simulated barber shop, where a shelf of grooming supplies fell on an unsuspecting woman, causing severe lacerations and brain and spinal damage from which she later died. Stuff like that.

Caroline doesn’t want to talk much about it, so Dean asks her if she’d like to get dinner with him after their tour is concluded. Caroline thinks about it for a moment, and then she shrugs and admits that she doesn’t have anything going on this evening.

“I’ll pick you up after your shift, ‘kay?” Dean asks, winking, and Caroline chuckles and nods and tells him “Fine.”

Dean and John leave after that, and head to the local library to look up the obits and do some other digging. They find out that the recent deaths aren’t all that odd after all: there were more of them about 21 years ago. They discover that a migrant worker was killed on the land that Hogan’s Alley was built on, back in the 1890s. He’s buried in an old cemetery near the base. But that doesn’t explain why there’ve been deaths amongst the translators, and Dean’s more than a little curious, so he digs some more as John goes to prepare to exhume, salt, and burn the corpse. His search eventually leads him back to the base, where he picks up Caroline when her shift ends at seven. He takes her to a local diner, chats her up some more, gets her talking about her interests and family and various experiences. He asks her how she became a translator. She tells him that she’s loved languages since she was in high school, and that all she wants to do is serve her country using the skills she has. Dean jokingly asks her if she knows any famous James Bond types, to which she laughs and gives him a smoky look that sends his dick twitching against the front of his suddenly-too-tight jeans.

“What do you take me for?” she asks, a smile curling her pretty lips. “Closest the translators usually get to James Bond is when we go south on investigations…” She pauses. “Though, there were a few agents in the O.S.S. back in the 50s that were like that.”

“O.S.S. agents?” he asks, and she nods.

“Yeah,” she replies. “Used to make spies here. Training and all that.” She leans forward conspiratorially over her voluminous stomach. “Story goes one of ‘em even bit the dust in a training exercise here.”

Dean leans in close to her, too, and his jeans are _way_ too tight. “Really?”

“Yep.” She scans him, the healthy glow of her skin accentuated by the low lighting of the diner, and Dean’s chest feels almost as tight as his pants. “It’s one of the stories they use to scare the noobs, so just to warn you if you do decide to attend the Academy. They say two of the O.S.S. agents were doing a run-through of the Demo Area one day, and split up. One of them got jittery, and when his partner suddenly appeared ahead of him, he mistook him for one of the targets and shot him.” She pauses to sip a bit of her soda, and Dean can’t help but lick his lips as he watches her mouth work at the straw. “Those days, they didn’t have blank ammo, just used small-caliber bullets instead. Guy died on the spot. Headshot.”

Dean whistles lowly and leans a little closer to her.

“Wow, that sucks,” he mutters, and then her lips are on his, kissing tentatively, tenderly, as though she’s never kissed someone before. He returns it.

Soon enough, they’re stumbling through the door of his motel room, pulling off clothes, hands tracing every inch of skin they can find. Dean’s fascinated by the round bulge of her belly and the way he can occasionally see a foot or hand pressing against her skin from the inside. It’s almost a little eerie, coming from his background as a hunter who has seen everything from werewolves and demons to ghosts and changelings. But despite her pregnancy, she exudes beauty and confidence that he’s not entirely sure she really feels. Her attitude is that of the experienced lover, though her actions say otherwise: she’s hesitant where he’s bold, modest where he’s not, and entirely too shy when it comes to his dick.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say you’re a virgin,” he gasps a half-hour later from where he’s kissing down the swell of her belly to the place between her thighs. She bucks and moans and almost comes right then when he begins to lick her, each stroke of his tongue either long and smooth or light and playful.

“I-It’s been a while,” she pants, and then buries her hands in his hair, holding him to her. Dean obliges all too happily, eating her out with an expertise that speaks of his experience. Soon enough, she’s moaning like a whore and saying all sorts of dirty things as she spasms around his tongue and fingers, and _God,_ Dean’s rock-hard and leaking all over the sheets and he doesn’t think he’s ever been so turned on in his life. When he goes up to kiss her a second later, she meets him with a languid, satisfied mewl. He does a full-body twitch and just barely refrains from finishing right then. Instead, he pulls away, reaches frantically for the wallet in his jeans, and fumbles for the condom he keeps in there. He _has_ to be inside her, _right now,_ or he thinks he might just die from the lack of blood in his brain before he comes.

She sits up on her elbows, legs splayed wide and breasts full and damp, thighs streaked from her orgasm, and Dean pants as he hastily tears open the foil packet and rolls the condom down over his dick, eyes glued to hers. He can see her chest undulating with every breath, can see the thumping of her heart beneath her left breast, can see the way her arms and legs are trembling. She turns wide eyes up to him as he finally gets the condom on and crawls over to her, dick hanging heavy between his thighs.

“Wait,” she says, almost shakily, and Dean almost whines before she takes his shoulders in her hands and guides him to lie down on his back. Curious, and more turned-on than before now that she’s taking control, he watches as she straddles his thighs, arching up above him. She licks her lips. “Can’t do it missionary-style. Baby’s in the way.”

She bites her lip cutely as she lifts herself up. Dean almost sees stars as she slowly impales herself on him; the baby inside her has made her shallower than anyone else he’s ever slept with, but the hardness that presses back against the head of his dick with every shallow penetration is exquisite. Dean’s eyes cross as he throws his head back, hands flying to her rounded hips to assist. She moans shakily and braces her palms against his chest.

Every movement is hesitant for the first few minutes. Then they find a delicious rhythm and pick it up, Dean thrusting shallowly even though he doesn’t have to do much of the work. Soon enough, however, she seems to begin to tire, and slows to a slow grind. Dean looks up at her with some confusion and maybe a little disappointment, and then he gets a wicked idea in mind. Reaching up to tweak her full breasts, he takes a strong grip on her and lays her down so that she’s lying to his right, facing him, and they’re still connected. She breathes a small sigh of relief at the change in position, but then whines when he withdraws from her. When he simply shifts around behind her so that he’s playing the big spoon, however, she reaches back to touch his hip.

“D-Dean,” she pants. Dean’s alarmed to hear a note of fear in her voice. He abruptly sits up and instinctively scans the room, finding nothing of note, before he turns back to her curiously.

“What is it?” he asks. She swallows thickly, and tugs on his hand where it’s curved around her belly until he leans over her. She turns on her back so she can look at him. The fear in her eyes when she meets his gaze startles Dean; he frowns in confusion and concern and reaches up to cradle her cheek in his hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Just…” She gulps in a breath, and tugs him back towards her front side again. Dean complies with some confusion, but he does not hesitate. “Please. Let me see your face. That’s all.”

Dean nods slowly, watching her hand hover absently over a vivid scar that was, until that moment, hidden from him by the fall of her chocolate hair. As he lies down again, facing her this time, he reaches out, fingers brushing across the line of her collarbone. The scar is only recently healed, it seems, running parallel to her collarbone and vivid pink against the pale tan of her skin. Now that he notices, she has at least two dozen other scars marking her hide, though none of them are as obvious and noticeable as the one on her collarbone. Dean wonders what happened to her, but he cannot find anything but beauty in them despite their inherent ugliness.

He leans forward and slowly presses a worshipful kiss to the scar on her collarbone. Caroline’s breath hitches, and she goes still against him for a second before she arches into his touch. Dean moans and traces the scar with his tongue before he lowers his mouth to her breast, this time mapping out a thin, white mark edging the outside curve of it. His fingertips dance along the scars that he can suddenly see, feeling the different texture of them as a contrast to the smooth skin of the rest of her body. It’s not long until she’s breathless and writhing against him, though there is still something reserved about her that he almost wishes he could breach. Her fingertips, gun-callused and deft, trace his own plethora of marks, and Dean’s about to go insane.

She moves her leg over his hip and presses her heel into the back of his thigh, and Dean kisses her and enters her again, hearing her whimper in time with his own groan as her tight, wet heat envelops him. He presses his palm to her hip, hitching her leg higher over his waist and pulling her tighter to him with his other arm as she wraps her hands around his shoulders. She seems to have lost most of her modesty, now, kissing him with abandon, and she must be a fast learner, because the things she’s doing with her mouth are utterly _sinful,_ and coming from _Dean,_ that’s really saying something. He moans loudly and sets a rhythm, thrusting into her and feeling _everything_ at once.

Caroline whimpers and pulls back from the kiss only a moment into it, chest heaving, her every exhalation a desperate moan. Her lips form words, blessing and cursing and praising and damning all in the same breath, and Dean’s not even sure that she knows what she’s saying anymore, but it’s so _dirty_ and _beautiful_ and _good_ that he can’t help but press his face into her neck as he picks up the pace, and _fuck fuck goddamn fucking shit you’re beautiful so good feel so good_ and she’s tightening around him and he stutters her name-

As she gasps out another whimpering scream and crashes down around him, Dean shudders, grabbing her hips and pounding into her as he leans up and seizes her mouth with his, thrusting a few times before his hips judder to a stop and he yells brokenly as he comes so hard he blacks out for a moment. When he can see again, he’s gasping as though he just ran two miles and she’s panting and stroking his face. He moans and cracks open green eyes, not remembering when he closed them, and she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Dean kisses her deeply and thinks he just might be a tiny bit in love with her.

“Thank you,” she breathes a little while later as they lie there together, the condom discarded, simply watching each other through the darkness from under the scratchy motel room sheets. Dean reaches up to tuck a stray lock of chocolate hair behind her ear, and presses a light kiss to her lips. She smiles against him and briefly deepens it before she pulls back.

“What’re you thanking me for?” he asks, watching her tongue as she licks his taste from her lips. She sighs and reaches up to cradle his cheek in her hand.

“For tonight,” she whispers. “For showing me that sex… isn’t always bad.”

Dean frowns and looks at her a little more intensely as she snuggles into him and rests her hand on her belly, rubbing gently. She doesn’t seem like she wants to elaborate on that statement; in fact, her breathing is already evening out in sleep, but Dean can’t help but wonder what it is she’s referencing. Disturbed, he wraps his arms around her and rests his chin on her head, and wonders if this is what it would be like to be _normal_ as he closes his eyes and tries to get a little sleep.

John comes in a little after two, and Dean’s sitting at the tiny motel table in a pair of jeans with his laptop open, scouring the obits for O.S.S. agents who’ve died in Quantico over the past sixty years or so. John’s eyes flick over to the bed, where Caroline’s still sleeping, and he raises an eyebrow at Dean, who simply goes on reading.

“Enjoyed yourself?” John asks softly, setting his duffel bag down and kicking it underneath his bed. Dean grunts.

“She told me about a story they tell to scare the rookies,” he says instead, and then triumphantly turns the screen towards John, whose eyes scan the words on the page. Dean reads, “Stephen O’Neill, died in 1948 during a training exercise in the Chopawamsic Recreational Demonstration Area adjacent to Marine Corps Base Quantico. Took a shot to the head from a small-caliber round. No other deaths before or since. Spoke unaccented German, Italian, Spanish, French, and Russian. Think that might be our guy, if the murders keep up.”

John nods slowly. “Well, we’ll just have to go back tomorrow and see about it. Salted and burned the migrant worker’s body already. Any idea where this guy’s buried?”

“Used to be buried in a plot in Quantico’s cemetery,” Dean replies, “but they dug him up and reinterred him when they dedicated today’s cemetery in May of ’83.” His gaze drifts up to meet his father’s. “That’s probably why he’d be mad, if he hasn’t been wreaking havoc before now. They’re planning on moving him again in August.”

John nods slowly.

“Well, guess that’s what we’ll be up to tomorrow night,” he comments, and heads for the shower. Dean stares blankly at his computer screen for a moment. Then he shuts it all down for the night and climbs back into bed, tucking Caroline’s head beneath his chin again. She sighs in her sleep and snuggles into him, and Dean wonders why he feels so safe and contented as he looks down and notices a pale, faint light shining from her palm where it’s pressed to his chest above his heart. The organ in question leaps into his throat for a second before he realizes that he’s not suffocating or having a heart attack forced on him. If anything, he feels better than ever, if a little lethargic.

Puzzled, Dean watches the light fade. As she falls back into a deeper sleep, her hand slips down to the bedspread again, and Dean glances down at his chest to find that a small, silver mark has appeared on his skin. He stares at it for a second, trying to make it out, but he can’t, and eventually he gives up, deciding that he’ll look at it in the morning.

His sleep is deeper and more peaceful than it has been since before his mom died.

When he wakes up in the morning, his dad’s asleep in the bed across from him, and Caroline’s already gone. Judging by the amount of light outside, Dean guesses that she’s probably already at Quantico for the day. As he gets up to shower, he notices a note sitting on the table, written in an unfamiliar feminine hand. Curious, and perhaps a little touched, he picks it up and scans it.

_Dean,_

_Had to go to work. I guess I won’t see you again. I know you’re moving on soon; you don’t seem like the FBI type. No hard feelings._

_Still, I wanted to thank you. You showed me that sex isn’t always bad or painful. You showed me that it can be a true expression of pleasure and goodness between two people instead of an act of violence, and you gave me hope that I will, maybe, meet the right guy for me someday. I’d ask if you would be that guy, but I can tell that you’re not the type to settle._

_If you’re ever in town, look me up again. We can get coffee and catch up. Maybe, by then, you’ll be able to meet my daughter._

_Think I’ll name her Emily Marie…_

_God, I’m rambling. Must be that “pregnant woman dementia” you always hear about._

Dean smiles to himself.

_I guess I’ll write my cell and e-mail down, too. If you ever decide you want to actually attend Quantico, or if you ever need any help (with translations or otherwise), or if you just want to chat, don’t hesitate to contact me. I don’t expect you to do the latter, since you don’t seem the type, but I just thought I’d offer._

_Take care of yourself, Dean. And thank you._

_Sincerely,_

_Caroline Munroe_

She had written her personal e-mail address and her cell phone beneath her name. Dean smiles to himself and lifts the hotel stationery to his lips, inhaling slowly. She’d scented it with the perfume she was wearing last night; he closes his eyes and remembers the way she looked beneath him, glowing and grinning and so, so _beautiful._ He wonders if it’s the pregnancy hormones that made her look so amazing. Still, as he pulls the paper away and turns to go to the bathroom, he realizes that there’s a post-script at the bottom of the letter.

Curious, he reads her last words.

_P.S. I didn’t notice it last night, but that’s a very interesting tattoo you have on your heart. Isn’t that Latin?_

Dean blinks, dumbfounded, for just a heartbeat before he drops the letter and dashes into the bathroom. Flipping on the light, he gazes at his bare chest in the mirror, tracing the familiar letters and translating the words in his mind. It’s a cross inside a pentagram and several shapes that he doesn’t recognize, and the symbols are encircled by the Latin words for “He is protected by God.” Reaching up, he places his warm palm against the silver-white skin of the scar, finding it to be cooler than the rest of him to the touch.

It’s where Caroline laid her hand upon him last night before he fell asleep.

He’s perplexed. Dean knows a sigil when he sees one, but he’s never seen one look like this, before. Uneasy, he decides to ask his dad about it later. He starts the shower running. As he slips under the warm stream, he wonders what the sigil does, who Caroline is to have the power and knowledge to painlessly carve a mark like that into his skin without any tools, and whether or not he and his dad will have to fight a ghost today.

Only time will tell.

**Author's Note:**

> Caroline Munroe is, obviously, an OC. Frankly, I just felt like writing some het sex with Dean Winchester, because he is a beautiful, beautiful man, both inside and out. (The latter is courtesy of the amazing Jensen Ackles.) Second time writing Dean, so I hope I got his personality down.
> 
> Hogan's Alley is a real FBI training ground in Quantico, VA. The words Dean reads from the sign are verbatim.
> 
> First part of a larger series. Will post as they come to me.


End file.
